


Untitled Smut

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Felching, M/M, PWP without Porn, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock work off the rush from yet another chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Smut

It’s amazing, the rush that comes with chasing down a criminal, dashing through the streets and dodging cars in hot pursuit of someone who may or may not be carrying a weapon. Who could turn, at any time, and fire a shot at them. John thinks it must say something about him that this is when he’s at his best, when the pull in his leg from damaged muscle – it’s a real injury, but the cane is unnecessary even on the worst of days – can be blotted out, the constant ache in his arm that sometimes leaves his hand tingling is ceases to exist, is when death and danger go hand in hand, hiding around each twist and turn.

He knows he should talk to his therapist about this, knows that his reactions are skewed, but it’s hard to doubt, hard to deny himself, when Sherlock is right beside him, the thrill of the chase and the mystery making his eyes bright and his smile open. And it’s comforting, their easy companionship, knowing that when he’s coming down from this high, he’ll have someone there to make certain he doesn’t crash too hard. Like now.

They’ve barely made it inside their flat and they haven’t even taken off their coats when Sherlock presses him to the wall. He kisses John brutally as he shoves one hand down his trousers, palming John’s cock roughly. John prefers it like this when they’re working on cases; the ungentle, crushing touches and the urgency that has them moving too fast, too hard.

“That was brilliant, what you did,” Sherlock mutters against John’s mouth, thumb sweeping over the head of John’s cock. “The look on his face! And how steady you were.”

He pulls away and John barely has time to mourn the loss of Sherlock’s mouth and hands before he’s being spun around. His arms come up automatically and he braces himself against the wall, head tucked into the crook of his elbow as Sherlock yanks his trousers and pants down and pulls him back by the hips. It should be a humiliating position, but John knows only too well what will follow and he wants it, desperately.

A low keening sound escapes as Sherlock’s thumbs stroke down the crease of his buttocks, pulling his cheeks apart to blow against his hole. Then Sherlock’s tongue is there, pressing inward in short, forceful bursts, working John open quickly, thoroughly. He nips at the sensitive skin, shoves his tongue in hard and hums, and it’s all John can do not to come right then and there, with nothing more than Sherlock’s tongue in his arse.

“Good god, Sherlock,” he groans, pushing back to get more, to feel everything. “Don’t stop.” He’s half-begging and he knows Sherlock will tease him for it later, but he doesn’t care because this, _this_ is all that matters at the moment.

Sherlock is far from stopping. His tongue presses in hungrily, the sounds he’s making wet and filthy and John would blush, but there’s no one but them to witness this. Instead, he groans out Sherlock’s name and drops one hand to his cock, which is aching with want.

Sherlock knocks his hand away, biting the curve of John’s arse hard enough to leave teeth imprints. “You’re not to touch yourself until I say.”

It’s a hard order to obey when Sherlock introduces the first finger into John’s spit-slick hole, crooking it slightly and tugging on the furled skin, opening John up wider. Then his tongue is back, pushing in, lapping at the ring as Sherlock works the finger in and out before adding a second. It feels good, so good John could almost weep. Instead, he widens his stance, pushes back with his hips to urge Sherlock on.

“Just do it already,” he commands, but his voice is raspy, broken as he pants out harshly into his arm.

“And give this up? Never.” Sherlock has three fingers in him now, thrusting hard and pressing against his prostate with unfailing accuracy. His face is mashed in beside his hand and he’s spearing his tongue in beside the slender digits, straining hard to fill John as completely as possible.

When Sherlock deems him stretched enough – and more importantly, when he can no longer resist the need to be inside John – he pulls his fingers free and stands, stripping his belt off completely and tossing it aside. He pauses at the sight of it lying coiled on the floor, has a sudden image of himself using it on John, using it to tie him down to mark him, and he has to close his eyes, separate himself from the dangerous visions flitting through his mind. Then he’s yanking open his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free his cock before stepping into the space between John’s thighs.

Sherlock is almost brutal, shoving in fully and allowing no time for adjustment, but he knows John can take it. Knows this is how they _both_ want it. Fast and hard and _them_. He curls his fingers over John’s hips, grips hard enough to bruise, because he likes seeing the evidence of his claiming John’s body, and fucks with vigor. He can hear every groan that escapes John’s lips, can feel the muscles around him clenching, and Sherlock knows this won’t last.

It doesn’t take much, the adrenaline rushing through their veins sees to that, but Sherlock fights against it, tries to draw out the moment because he knows that after he’s come, he’ll have to pull out, separate himself from the heat of John’s body and he doesn’t want to do it. He wants to stay like this; buried deep and held tight. John, he thinks, feels the same way, because he’s gripping Sherlock so tightly and his whole body is tense, like he’s waging an internal war. He probably is.

But it doesn’t last. Sherlock manages three more thrusts straight over John’s prostate that send him shouting out his orgasm, body clenching down so hard around Sherlock’s cock it hurts. Sherlock is ruthless though, pushing in over and over, uncaring that John is probably so sensitive right now it’s bordering on painful.

Sherlock is silent when he comes, jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut tightly as he empties himself inside John. It is the stillest, quietest John has ever seen him, and it pleases him that he does this, that he can strip away all of Sherlock’s barriers until he’s left like this; face twisted with pleasure, cock hot and hard and pulsing. Beautiful, though John is always careful never to say the last aloud. He’s disappointed he can’t see Sherlock’s face now, but reassures himself with the knowledge that later, after they’ve cleaned up and eaten, Sherlock will take him to bed, this time recalling all the ways they nearly died, and it will be John’s turn to spread Sherlock out, open him up and take him apart just so he can be put back together.

John’s shoulder aches and his leg is threatening to give out, so he wants nothing more than to stumble over to the couch and collapse upon it until he’s caught his breath, but Sherlock is faster, pulling out and dropping to his knees once more. John knows what he’s seeing, has had the image described to him more times than he can count and knows Sherlock will do so again anyway. His fascination with watching his come slide out of John’s body is topped only by his desire to put it there in the first place.

“You must feel empty,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence. “You’re still wide open, the muscles here slowly contracting back down.” He runs his finger around the edge before pushing it inside. “One day, I should like to see how full I can make you.”

John blushes. How he can still manage such a feat after six months of being sexually intimate with Sherlock he doesn’t know, but he can feel the heat of it sweeping over his face, making his ears and the back of his neck burn. He wants to tell Sherlock to piss off, to let him get dressed, but what comes out instead is, “Like that’s going to happen. You’ve never waited more than a minute before you’re...” the sentence trails off, John suddenly unable to voice the words.

“Licking my come out of you?” Sherlock sounds amused, the bastard, and John grits his teeth. “I cannot be faulted for wanting to sample everything inside you, even if came from me first.”

His thumbs have been moving in slow circles over John’s arse right up until then, but now they’re sliding in, holding John open so Sherlock can press his tongue inward. He laps at the puffy, reddened skin, slurps noisily at the sticky fluid leaking out of John and makes an obscene sound in the back of his throat. When he pulls back, John feels bereft.

“My god, John. Look at you. It’s like you want nothing more than to have me inside you, like you need me to fill this space.” He slides in three fingers, twisting them around and forcing out more of his seed. He catches it on his tongue and savors the combined flavors of he and John, unsurprised at how well they complement one another.

“Next time, when I have had time to prepare you thoroughly and you aren’t already sore, I want to see how much of me you can take.” He emphasizes his words by pushing those three fingers in as deep as they can go and wiggles his thumb and pinkie.

John’s brain is slow to process the words and he frowns at the wall as he works through their meaning, but when understanding comes, he’s less put off than he thinks he should be. The idea of Sherlock's hand _there_ should be terrifying, but John finds he wants it too, wants to feel the stretch and burn and hurt. Wants everything and anything Sherlock is willing to give him.

The fingers inside him disappear and Sherlock presses one more kiss to the red-raw skin before standing. John is pulled away from the wall by careful hands, steadying him as he steps out of his trousers and pants neatly. Nothing is said as he’s being led up the stairs to Sherlock’s room where he’s pressed down onto the soft mattress. He opens his mouth to protest that he isn’t actually cleaned up, but the words die when he feels a wet cloth sliding over his skin, washing away the mess. When he is done, Sherlock slides into bed beside him, winding his long, slender limbs around John’s. Then the time for words passes and John lets his body relax into sleep with the knowledge that when he wakes, Sherlock will still be there.


End file.
